Those Turian Drinks
by Sonsasu The Gray Dragon
Summary: Although Shepard wondered what happened to Lorik after his last encounter with him, he wasn't quite expecting a sudden invitation to pay the Turian a visit thirteen years later. "Sometimes my vid-mails should simply go unanswered." Read FFN profile.


**Those Turian Drinks**

**By, Sonsasu**

**Chapter One**

**"Noveria"**

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This uncaring frozen wasteland, marred only by towering buildings made of metal enveloped in ice, was not a place he would have normally paid a second visit to, let alone a willing one.

With an elbow perched on a silvery steel tabletop, gloved fingers curled, resting beneath the length of his jaw, Shepard was not feeling very enthusiastic about this recent decision. Instead of being in a place filled with welcoming warmth, he was in a frigid hellhole, with an unpleasant glass of Turian liquor.

Held aloft from the gleaming table's surface, lightly cradled in his other hand, he eyed the untouched drink as if poison were its contents.

A personal experience, concerning Garrus enticing him with his own style of alcohol, left a human permanently cautious of _all_ things that could get him drunk and babbling happily in three _very_ tiny sips… Tired eyes, a pale shaded blue, circled with deep fatigue shadows beneath them, settled upon the glowing liquid. Luckily, the unmoving item allowed his thoughts to center on considering scant options within reach.

He could always leave, pretending the vid-mail had never arrived. A slow motion, tilting the vial side to side, caused the almost tasteless substance to spin sluggishly, its greenish hue growing more intense with each lazy twirl. No, he was already here, and that mirth-filled goat would immediately possess the notice of his docking, so he may as well see this through to the end…

He permitted both lead weighted lids to flutter shut, offering a moment's peace to his overly weary person.

Unusually quiet for Port Hanshan, the hotel's evening bar only tended a few people of mixed races nursing various beverages. These stragglers mostly hovered on the lower level, some speaking softly with companions, where a few more loitered alone at tables, scattered around the off-white, large stone tiled floor. They seemed to be doing the very same thing as he, sitting, acting as unobtrusive, solitary figures, invisible and staring blankly into the distance.

However, unlike the supposedly _awake_ collection, he felt partly lulled into a sleepy daze.

The soft pounding music, rising and falling in slow, heavy tempo, pouring from unseen speakers, did not exactly assist with his current exhaustion. Prying unwilling eyes open, he gave a quick darting look around the medium sized room, but failed to locate the reason he was here. This vexed the remaining, thin layers of nerves, ones that were brittle, and more than ready to snap if the Turian did not hurry up.

Problem was, he didn't hurry up, and during the lengthy minutes lapsing onto another series of even greater _lengthy_ minutes, every sixty-second mark accomplishing in escalating his annoyance to a fevered pitch, Shepard rekindled a curious thought as to why he bothered to come here, hoping to stray his heated thoughts to a previous topic.

Thirteen _long_ years had passed, so what could ignite this sudden interest in requesting he pay the Turian a random visit? A spontaneous feeling of forlornness could not have persuaded his leathery backside to call him. Nor could the desire for personal company, for what little time he had shared with him, be the correct explanation. So of course, this simply meant he wanted something.

Amusingly enough, this did not stir a sensation of surprise to boil his stomach in acid, because there remained no room for anything else beyond crippling nausea.

Not paying attention, he had taken a mouth full of his drink, and then swallowed like an idiot. The instant it struck home, Shepard's internal world spun violently, resulting in him clutching the glass tighter, watering eyes snapping shut, and forming a death grip on the table's edge. Thundering, the horrid tsunami within his rolling belly lasted for a record time, but once settled, it released searing warmth to implode throughout his tingling body and partly numbed limbs.

"Holy shi-…damnit," he hissed between tightly clenched teeth.

Placing the glass to its original place, least his shaking hand spill the liquid, he forced air to exit his lungs until they shuddered, hoping to regain some form of a steadied composure. A shard of pure luck must have crashed atop his skull, for apparently, he had ordered the lesser cousin to Garrus's perverted version of moonshine. Sucking in oxygen with a quivering gasp, his head seemed to roll right with the wave of inhaled breath.

This would be by far his _last_ time to accept or order any motion inhibiting, brain melting, speech-decaying damn breed of fluid ever again!

Drawing unsteady hands together, he interlinked his fingers, lifting them to support the burden of his chin. He would give the Turian a little more to add to that ticking clock before leaving, mainly for the fact, he was uncertain if he could walk a straight line whilst up and moving.

The repetitive circle of Shepard's thrilling waiting interval resumed, dragging along with it, his earlier mood of impatience, although the aggravation took thrice as long to accumulate in the minor time, compliments of downing a powerful substance made to be genuine evil. As thirty minutes came strutting past, his temper was more then preparing to rear its ugly, misshapen head, when a hand, more like two, long fingered claws and a matching thumb, alighted itself gently on the rounded curve of his shoulder.

"I'm pleased you decided to come."

Oh, he was going to shoot him in the kneecaps later…

"Nice to see you too."

Ah Noveria, dispite being the galaxy's slightly populated, and frostbitten left ass cheek; it was also the current residence to none other than the _newly_ appointed, head administrator.

Lorik Qiu'in.

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-Disclaimer-

**I do not own Mass Effect**


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